


The Willow's Mercy

by starlightwalking



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ghosts, Nonbinary Legolas, Nymphs & Dryads, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 03:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: They call it a haunted forest. They don't know why.Legolas is the Heir of the Wood; they are not supposed to heal their enemies or perform impossible magic. Gimli is a mighty warrior; he is not supposed to die. But neither of them are known for following the rules, and with the fate of the Wood at stake, there is little their peoples will not do to control it.





	The Willow's Mercy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MirandaTam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaTam/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, MirandaTam! I'm your Tolkien Secret Santa! :D  
> I wrote you a kind of odd AU with ghosts and dryads (which I call sprites in this fic...I love being confusing, lol). It gets a little abstract at moments, but I hope you enjoy it.

They call it a haunted forest. They don't know why.

There are tales, stories, memories that are fallen to pieces and fractured like ice just before spring—whispers of spirits and spilt blood and spiderwebs.

There is a legend of a powerful warlock, selling her soul in exchange for absolute power over life and death. Soulless, she withered the trees and animated clay into man until her own creations destroyed her and restored order to the forest. It is her spirit wandering the lonely woods, they say, searching for the soul she bartered away.

There is a folk song of two doomed lovers, girls of perfect beauty and enemy houses. They fled to the forest for sanctuary but were found by furious fathers and murdered as they slept. It is their ghosts who scream in the nighttime, they say, hunting for those who did them wrong.

There is a fable of young brothers, disobedient to their stepmother and banished from their home. They wasted away amid the trees, wailing to their last dying breath. It is their souls bound to the forest, they say, rooted in a place where they will never belong and begging for release.

But none of those stories are the truth. There is no pursuit of what was lost, for it has all been found. The forest is ancient, stained with memories a thousand years old, and there are no warlocks—no lovers—no lost little boys.

The truth is far more more mournful and wondrous than that.

* * *

They are invaders. Monsters. Full of sharp teeth and false claws. They rage through the sacred land, tearing apart innocents, trampling homes, killing the wood. They have powers beyond measure—fire and storms and blood all burn at the command of their mages. The firefolk are evil and merciless.

All the treefolk fear them. They took the edge of the wood and— _consumed_  it. No child or elder is spared as they burn their way to the heart of the forest. The treefolk cannot run nor hide, tied as they are to their branches and trunks. But they fight back.

A firefolk warrior cannot linger in the forest alone. They will lose their way as paths change, leaves whisper, branches block out all light. Even a mage dares not try: fire and magic may wound some of the wood, but the treefolk have their own spells.

The King of the Wood is mightier than any firefolk mage. His voice shakes the earth, his glance turns men to stone. And he will not allow his people to be broken.

The Heir of the Wood loves their father. They laugh at the thought of his smile and bow to his wisdom. But they do not always listen to him.

There is no right, they reason, for him to prevent them from wandering the wilds. Despite the danger of the firefolk, they are a capable warrior and competent mage. There is no grounds for barring the Heir of all the forest from walking where they please.

Perhaps it was true that they had agreed to take the blame for allowing a prisoner to escape, but that was months past. Their father ought to have forgiven them by now, but still they remained punished for a misdeed they did not commit. Now, in order to avoid being spotted by any of the king's servants, they must sneak away from their tree whenever they wish to wander.

They walk through the wood without making a sound. They are as ashy-brown as the bark of their tree, their wispy hair as pale as moonlight, their eyes green as the leaves they were named for. Legolas is a noble sprite, no longer a youth, and able to choose their own path.

They alight upon a fallen log, feeling soft moss beneath bare feet. They are clad in soft green, blending in with the wood as only one of the treefolk can.

Legolas hears a bird's call, not far away. They stay perfectly still, listening hard.

The call comes again. A signal. They slip under the log and conjure an illusion concealing them not only from the untrained eyes of the firefolk, but from their kin as well.

It is not long before a ragged, battle-weary patrol stumbles past the log. They would be invisible to any man watching, but to Legolas they are louder than a wounded bear.

Legolas recognizes the captain of the party: their friend, Tauriel. She is an oak in perpetual autumn, the red of her hair burning like the firefolk's magic. She is fearsome and strong, and only she knows them well enough to see through their illusions.

Legolas lies perfectly still as the patrol passes, whispering of their losses in the recent battle.

"...a hundred dead since the last full moon," hisses one warrior. He is tied to a birch not far from this spot, nervous at the encroaching firefolk. "Will we last through winter?"

"The King will protect us," assures a fir. "The winter is hard on them, too."

"They have  _fire_ ," worried the birch.

Tauriel holds up a hand. The patrol falls silent and still.

"They are still near," she murmurs. "The mages will come to collect the bodies. Do not let them sense your fear. Their mages...they  _know_."

The birch trembles. The fir grabs his arm and leaps away. The rest of the patrol melts into the forest, returning home to their trees.

Legolas can feel the call of their own tree. Their willow is a tender, sensitive tree, missing them even as they wander. Legolas pushes away the tugging at their heart; their magic is powerful enough to suppress it.

Tauriel alone remains. She kneels at the log and waves her hand, dissipating Legolas's illusion. "I knew you were there."

Legolas scowls and clambers into the open. "You ruin everything."

Tauriel snorts. "You do not need my help to ruin anything, Legolas. But I am not going to tell on you to your father. Wander where you like—as long as it is not near the site of a recent battle. The firefolk will be sending their mages back to collect the dead, and your father would kill all of us if anything happened to you."

Legolas shivers. They know she is right. Thranduil is a vengeful lord.

"I will not be harmed," they say confidently. "And since when are you the obedient one? I seem to remember a time where you let a firefolk prisoner escape because she flirted with you—"

Tauriel glares and swats them. "We all know how that ended. I've learned since then."

"You're the reason I have to sneak around like this, Tauriel." Legolas sniffs. "You surely would be exiled and left to die if Thranduil knew it was you who let that mage escape."

Tauriel doesn't meet their eyes. "I will be forever grateful for that, Legolas. You know I will."

"Some gratitude that mage had!" Legolas continues. "She left and never said thanks to either of us. Doubtless she's still trying to destroy our people."

"I've never seen her in a battle party since," Tauriel retorts. "Kí—she changed, I know she did."

"Mmm." Legolas doesn't believe her. The firefolk cannot change; they will burn the forest to the ground or be utterly destroyed in the attempt. And all the treefolk need it to be the latter, even Tauriel.

"Just—think, for once," Tauriel begs.

"I always do." Legolas winks and leaps away. They are an accomplished warrior, and once upon a time before their punishment, their father had charged them with leading battle parties like Tauriel with great success.

Legolas does not allow that to bother them. They flit silently from tree to tree, ignoring the mournful call of their willow, heading toward the site of the recent battle. If they can take out the firefolk mages, they can prove to their father that they are fit to lead patrols again...

The mages are already there, picking over the bloodstained remains of their fallen kin. Legolas watches from a tree, rage welling up in their heart. There are five bodies lying motionless on the ground, fleshy and weak and dead. Beside them are pools of sap and torn leaves, the signs of mutilated treefolk. Axes, fire—they see and smell both. The scene is revolting.

Two mages are there. Sisters, it looks like—young and powerful. They seem...familiar, though their faces are covered in black hoods. Legolas squints and watches.

"Kí," says one. "Have you seen Gimli?"

_Kí_. Legolas grips the tree branch next to them. This is Tauriel's prisoner—returned for the spoils of war! She has not changed at all!

"Nah," whispers Kí. "We've got to hurry, Fí. I can..." She glances up, staring right past Legolas's hiding spot. "I can  _feel_  they're close by."

"Blast." Fí snorts. She summons a ball of fire in her hands. "We've got all the magic we'll get from these bodies. Let's go, then. Get them back to the village for the death rites."

Kí closes her eyes, a faint glow appearing around her. The air in the clearing shakes, becomes thicker than air ought to be—

The bodies tremble, flickering in and out of sight, until they vanish altogether. Legolas hisses softly: no magic of the treefolk could transport flesh like that!

Kí collapses wearily onto the ground. Fí catches her, then hefts her over her shoulder.

"No Gimli?" Kí murmurs as Fí drags her away.

"I didn't see him," Fí says grimly. "He must've escaped—or the sprites've got him. Torn him to pieces by now, no doubt."

"They let me go..." Kí whispers. She faints altogether.

Fí sighs and readjusts her grasp on her sister. "You're the outlier, don't you see?" She begins to trudge off out of the wood.

Legolas blinks. The firefolk were escaping! They raise their hand and channel a spell of blinding light, ready to blast Fí and Kí out of existence—

A moan, behind them, haunting and low. Legolas hesitates, and that is enough time for Fí to stumble off into the wood, out of range.

Legolas curses. They missed their chance to prove themself.

The moan echoes again. Frustrated, Legolas turns round and slinks off to investigate the noise. Perhaps it was a treefolk warrior who had escaped a fiery demise.

There is something lying in a bed of ivy several feet away from the clearing. A foul stench fills the air; blood stains the green of the forest floor. No—this is no treefolk.

A half-dead firefolk man lies crumbled and broken in the undergrowth. His beard is scorched; his stomach bleeding sluggishly. He looks as if he will die within the hour.

But he is not dead yet. He moans, trying to speak—call—cry—

Legolas makes out a faint word: "Help..."

They reach out a hand hesitantly, light still glowing in their palm. They could destroy this man in an instant, rid the forest of another enemy...but some small part of them pities him.

The light fades to a soft, healing glow. Legolas creeps forward, their hand outstretched. They lay gentle hand on the man's wound.

He cries out, and they recoil with a silent start. His eyes fly open: a deep, hungry brown.

Legolas sees their reflection in those eyes: tall, lithe, and  _other_. They are encompassed by a halo of magic, and they are terrified of their own image.

The firefolk man struggles to move away, but Legolas grabs his hand.

"Hush," they instruct. They let a smooth trail of magic trickle down the man's wrist and to his wound, closing up the gaping cut. The man's eyes roll back into his head, and Legolas is left trembling.

What had they done? Why had they healed him? If their Father heard about this... If even Tauriel knew—!

Legolas frowned as the man grunted again. The wound was healed—so why was he still moaning?

Legolas feels the pull of their willow at their heart, stronger now. Their tree is the source of all their magic, and they had spent much of it already. They need to return home and replenish it.

But this man was still dying...

So leave him, the rational part of them says. He does not deserve healing anyway.

A bitter tang drifts up to Legolas's nostrils, and they fall still. Brightspear. They know that smell. The deadliest poison in the wood. Only one warrior they knew of tipped her arrows in brightspear: Tauriel.

This man would die by nightfall if Legolas did nothing. They didn't know why they needed to save them, but they felt compelled to.

The tug at their heart comes again. Legolas hefts the man's limp body over their shoulder and begins to sprint away.

They must take the longest way home to their willow if they are to avoid being seen. Tauriel is the only one who would be sympathetic to their cause, but it was her arrows that are killing this man. They had to keep out of sight.

Legolas sneaks their way back to their willow. Treefolk are as strong as the trunks of their trees, but with their magic draining, Legolas grows weaker by the second. By the time they return to the willow, their will is nearly spent. They drop the firefolk man in a heap at the roots of their tree and cast themself into the willow's heart.

_They melt into the tree_ —their physical form  
dissipates into light that  
 _dances  
_ round the swaying, sighing branches of a willow. They—are—the  
willow; they become  
 _one_  
with their tree

the wind stirs their leaves ; their roots soak up water from the  
forgiving earth  
their heart  _glows_  with replenishing Magic

time is Meaningless and For-  
 _ever_  (to a tree;  
as a being of light and leaf they  
have no sense of passing hours)  
they grow, change,  
Minute by empty Minute—  
but there is yet a part of them that can feel the  _deadweight_  of  
a firefolk warrior against their trunk and hear his desperate moans and they  
know it is time ( whatever that means ) to emerge.

Who are they? They piece themself back together bit by bit.  
A warrior. An Heir to the Forest.  
Light made physical; magic most mysterious.  
They are Greenleaf—They are Legolas—they are whole again.

Legolas breathes in air as their senses return to them. They expect a clean, fresh feeling, like grass after rain, but instead they choke on the smell of blood and poison.

Legolas orients themself and kneels beside the man's shaking figure. The poison is dominating him now: he twitches and cries out, his fingers tearing grass from the dirt. He kicks, spittle flying from his tortured mouth.

"Shh—shh!" Legolas lays a hand on the man's closed wound. It is warm: an infection festers beneath the skin. The healing they performed earlier only trapped it within him.

Brightspear is deadlier than any other poison in the wood. There are legends of those who have survived it, but no firefolk has ever withstood its venom. Still, Legolas feels compelled to  _try_.

They cast a spell—then another—and another. Each time, the man's face relaxes for a second, but his spasms begin again momentarily. The brightspear controls him; there is no chance for his survival.

Legolas ought to give up. They ought to have given up the moment they saw him, but he was so helpless... And that  _look_  in his eyes, the fear upon seeing such a wild creature at his most vulnerable, it haunted them.

Legolas lays a hand on the trunk of their willow, drawing strength from it. They feel its pity for the man at its roots—a willow is forgiving, and nothing if not merciful.

They try again. This spell is different, something they have never cast before. They feel the willow bending itself to them, channeling its powers through them—it is the willow healing the man now, not Legolas themself.

A flash of light, and Legolas feels momentarily separated from their body. They see from the willow's perspective, but not like the endless unity of being one within it.

And then the moment passes. Legolas feels their hands trembling, entirely drained—but before them, the man's eyes flicker open.

That brown stare shakes them. Legolas leans in, mesmerized by their panicked face reflected in the man's eyes.

"Wh...who are you?" he chokes out.

"I'm...trying to save you," Legolas whispers.

"Why?" The man grabs their hand with shocking strength, and—something—courses through them. They feel a  _bond_  with him...a  _connection_  that frightens them.

He feels it too. He stares up at Legolas in incomprehension. "Your people...did this to me...Why reverse it?"

"You..." Legolas searches within them. "It was...your eyes. I saw myself in them. I saw too much to turn away."

The man's hand falls limply out of their grasp, and the connection is severed. "Thank you," he croaks. "I am...Gimli, son of...Glóin...I will—repay you, I pro..." He cannot finish the word.

"I am Legolas, child of—" They break off. It will do no good to reveal that their father is the king.

They take Gimli's hand again, and that  _something_  they have never felt before returns. A shiver, a sense of intimacy, a—

Gimli sighs, and his eyes close. The connection fades. Legolas grasps his hand tighter, tighter—it does not return.

Desperate, Legolas summons another healing spell, doing all they can to draw the brightspear from the wound, but it is too late. Despite the willow's magic, the poison reaches his heart, and Gimli's body crumbles to ash.

And though do not know why, Legolas weeps, and the willow weeps alongside them.

* * *

Gimli is something, and then, so soon, he is nothing.

A fighter, a woodsman, a proud son of Durinsrest. He fights to eke out an existence in the unforgiving wilds and till a soil that wants to kill him and all his people. He battles— _creatures_ , vile and treacherous, evil sprites more powerful than any man had seen before arriving at this accursed forest. And he wins.

He is no mage like his cousins Fí and Kí. The sisters are wily and skilled, casting fire on the sprites. Fire is what they fear most, and Gimli learns to wield a flaming sword.

He must fight to survive. His fathers brought them to this land in exile, and he will not be driven out again.

But a flaming sword cannot deflect a poisoned arrow, and soon—too soon—Gimli dies.

He remembers a face—a healing touch—a bed of soft moss—

_a hand, clutching his,_ as spirit fades and he passes  
into  
 _oblivion_

he is star and fire ; a concentrated force of  
nothing  
burning without heat  
a shine ! a glow ! a light !  
a sudden Oneness with a universe smaller  
than his fathers' gods had preached

he feels the Forest around him, breathing  
growing, sighing  
he  _is_  the forest — is this what death is like?

he is Light and Spirit and Soul  
and it is a Touch that shatters  
and  _mends  
_ _but a spell drags him—tears him from this  
_ _peace—_

and then he is Something again.

It is impossible to find a sense of  _self_  again, but he need not worry, for he is not one: he is many.

A wind blows through him. All he has become is mist, shaped again into a form that should not be. A power moves him, a fire at once alien and familiar.

He hears a whisper of a voice that he should know, regretful and solemn:  _We must. We will. Take them, burn them, free us all!_

Gimli looks at his hands and sees fog.

He is a ghost. There are only two mages powerful enough for such a spell. Fí and Kí have done this.

He is incapable of holding such a thought in his mind. It leaves him as soon as he thinks it. He hisses. He speaks, and no sound comes out. He is insubstantial.

And he is full of rage.

He is swept up in a battalion of spirits, rushing, rushing—

He sees the sprites around him. Vicious, reveling in his destruction. He hates them, hates them!

He feels the force of a thousand ghosts, proud warriors who perished alongside him, stirring him to anger. He becomes one with his kin, rushing through the forest in fury. He consumes sprites, sets trees alight, screams a silent, chilling scream.

He wreaks havoc.

And then—he feels something within him, a call to a tree he cannot explain. He wants to burn it, to consume it and all its power—

Gimli breaks away from the legion of ghosts and sees the willow. He rushes toward it, feeling its light beckon him to become one with it again...

And he sees a sprite cradling the autumn-red hair of another sprite in their lap, and all of Gimli's rage leaves him.

_Legolas._

He stops, hovering just before the sprite that tried to save him. The enemy that tried to heal him.

And then he looks down and remembers the red-haired sprite. In that battle, it was her arrow that pierced his gut, sending brightness coursing through his veins until they boiled. Gimli has no body now, but the echo of the pain makes his form flicker.

Legolas sees him. They gasp and fall back, dragging the body of the red-haired sprite with them.

"You!" they cry hoarsely. "You died!"

_I am a ghost,_  he tries to say—and though he cannot speak, Legolas hears him all the same.

"Your people did this," Legolas said bitterly. "Raising spirits to burn the forest...Tauriel's oak is dying. She will not last the night, and  _you_ —"

_She killed me,_  Gimli says.  _I am here because of her._

Legolas falls silent, trembling. "The treefolk are doomed. You will kill us all. And Tauriel...it was she who set the mage-captive free! Could not your people forgive us and cease your molestations?"

The mage-captive. They can only mean Kí—but is Kí who raised this spell. Gimli remembers her return, how she refused to fight any longer, only picking up after the battle. "She spared me, and I will not kill her people any longer," Kí explained. Gimli did not understand, then. He did now.

_Your people have more mercy than mine._  He tilts his head.  _Why?_

"The treefolk are peaceful—unless we are attacked." Legolas grits their teeth. "You—you firefolk—you kill us and cut our trees. We are one with them, we cannot live without them. We must fight back."

_My people come from a land far away, where there are no sprites living in trees. We shape the land to our needs. It should not fight back the way you do here._  Gimli tilts his head.

"But this is not that land!" Legolas protests. "We are dying!"

_So are we._  Gimli watches as Tauriel breathes ragged breaths, burns appearing on her perfect face.  _Where is her tree?_

Legolas lifts their eyes. They do not need to tell him, or cast a spell. Gimli  _knows_. The willow behind them tells him, like he is linked with it, too. He remembers an oak, huge and resplendent, and he remembers channeling his fury into fire and setting it alight.

He floats away without another word. The wind takes him to the burning oak, and Gimli sees all the destruction. He is sick. Why have Fí and Kí done this? What made Kí change her mind? Why can men and sprites not exist in harmony?

He knows not, but he can make some slight amends. Find the treefolk's mercy within himself.

There is fire in him, as a ghost, but there is also rain. He was no mage in life, but there is power in him now. Gimli summons it from within.

Rain falls. The fire dims; goes out. Across the forest, the ghosts feel his command, and summon a storm of rain and lightning. To them, it is still violence, but Gimli knows that Tauriel will live.

He does not return to the willow—not yet. He knows it will call him back in time.

Gimli comes back to the village. He sees his mourning father watching the forest burn, face streaked with ash and tears. Gimli touches Glóin's chin—and Glóin cannot see him, but he knows he is  _felt_.

He can feel the heart of the magepower. Fí and Kí sit across from each other in their hut, an unnatural blue fire flickering between them.

Gimli feels the rage pulsing in the flames, welling up inside himself. He fights it, but his form flickers with the effort.

Fí and Kí are in a trance. Their eyes are vacant, a blue aura around their bodies. Break the trance and the spell might end—

Gimli summons the fire within him and shouts.

Fí rises. She stares at him with a blank expression, and though her mouth moves not, she speaks.

_Why are you here?_  she asks.

_You cannot do this!_  he cries.  _You cannot kill all the forest! The sprites—_

Now Kí turns to him.  _Gimli?_

_They are dying,_  he begs.  _All of them!_

_Why do you wish to spare them?_  Fí asks.  _We are doing this for you._

_Uncle Thorin was so grieved at your death that he forced us to summon all our dead to raze the forest to the ground,_ Kí explains.

Fí scowls.  _Kí didn't wish to do it—nor did I, truthfully. But Thorin said all of Durinsrest will perish if we do not—_

Kí lifts a hand. She reaches forward—she  _touches_  Gimli. He can feel her grasp.

_Did you see Tauriel?_  she asks.

_I saved her tree,_  he says.

_Why?_  Kí stares into him with brown eyes, and Gimli remembers seeing himself in another pair of eyes: blue, startling, fearful. He gazed up into them and saw Legolas...

Now he sees his cousin.  _Her friend—Legolas—they tried to save my life._  Gimli curls his fingers around Kí's hand.  _I have learned mercy._

Kí looks at Fí.  _We have to stop._

_We cannot—it will destroy us!_  Fí protests.  _I wish we had not done this in the first place, but—what of our kin? The sprites will seek retribution—_

_They have shown mercy to Gimli and I. Now we must show mercy to them._  Kí closes her eyes.

Gimli feels a tug at his soul. The willow—it calls to him. But he is no sprite, bound to a tree, and that tree has been claimed already.

_You must tell Tauriel—or anyone—_  Kí's magic flows through him, and he cries out.  _Tell them we will end this. There has been peace between our peoples before, there will be again._

_We are not Celebrimbor and Narvi, Kí. This is not two generations ago, and we are no longer naive and cooperative._  Fí shakes her head.  _And if we call back the ghosts, we will perish._

Kí slips something into Gimli's spectral hand: a runestone, engraved with magic words he cannot read.  _This will protect the wood. If your Legolas channels their spirit into it—they can protect the sprites as we vanquish the spirits._  She hesitates.  _But the power is foreign and strong to sprites. It may kill them, if they can even channel it._

A chill runs through him.  _Any chance is better than none,_  he says.

Fí sighs.  _Thorin will kill us, Kí, but..._  She grins.  _It'll be worth it. I'm in._

Gimli feels the pull again. He kisses Kí's hand, then floats away. Somehow, the rock stays in his hand.

The storm rages overhead. Rivers rise, choking the shoreside trees. Fires still smolder in the undergrowth, devastating the wood.

Gimli needs the willow. Its power is alien to him, strong and unmanlike. No woodsman would love so for a tree—especially a sprite's tree—but he feels his heart bound to its roots.

He arrives at the willow again. Tauriel is gone. Legolas is unseen, but Gimli senses they are close by.

_Legolas?_  he calls.

They emerge from the willow's trunk, at first a being of light and mist until their spirit consolidates into a sprite. They look at him in disbelief.

"You saved her," they say. "You put out the fire. My father, the King—he has called all his people to amass their magics, and she answered, but... She cannot bear to destroy you all. Especially not that captive."

Gimli freezes at the words "my father, the King." Legolas is the Heir of the Wood? Where do their loyalties truly lie—with the King's tyranny, or with him?

_The captive—Kí—she is my cousin,_ he forces himself to say.  _She and her sister...they are powerful mages. They summoned us ghosts—they were forced to by the leaders of Durinsrest. But..._  Gimli opens his palm, and the stone falls through his spectral fingers.  _She says this will help you end the spell. There need be no more death._

Legolas moves to touch it, but the rage swells up again, and fire begins to flicker around Gimli. He raises two flaming fists and stands between the sprite and the stone.  _But you are the child of the King! How do I know you won't use our sacred stone against us?_

"What have I done to show I would?" Legolas demands. "I healed you—I led you to my tree—I ignored my father's call—I am speaking with you now." They scowl. "My only hesitation is that...would you be banished, too?"

The fire fades. Gimli considers.

_Yes,_  he says at last.  _And you may perish yourself. But death is not so bad. It is light—and freedom—and I felt at one with the world. I had never been so free..._

Legolas tilts their head. "That sounds much like..." They frown. "How are you finding me again and again?"

_The tree,_  Gimli says.  _It calls to me._

The color drains from Legolas's face. "You...are bound to my willow? Like a treefolk?"

_Aye._  He gasps, as much as a ghost without lungs can inhale air.  _Am I...?_

Legolas touches his hand. And—he  _feels_  it. They lead him back, into the tree, and he watches as Legolas melts into light—and then—

_he is all Light again—_ he is  
Nothing—  
and  _Everything—_

and he is not Alone.  
Legolas is— _WITH_ —him  
they are  _one_  with him—they are twined with him—he is Legolas and  
Legolas is Gimli and  
they are both the tree—

Gimli is frightened and he Falls—

—and tumbles onto the ground as his spirit forms a body of magic and chlorophyll and he becomes a sprite.

Now Legolas is the ghost, floating and flickering with fire. Gimli trembles as he feels power at his fingertips, a force of light  _and_  flame.

"You..." He coughs; it is sap that comes out, not phlegm. "We..."

_When I healed you..._  Legolas stares.  _It didn't work. The willow put its magic into you, but you died, your body turned to ash and..._

"It shouldn't have done that," Gimli says hoarsely. "A man's body is not  _like_  that, even poisoned."

_You were joined to my willow. And we..._  Legolas stares at their flaming spectral hands in horror.  _We are bound. I can set this wood alight—I can feel your cousins' spell—_

"We have to stop this," he says. "But you should not have to face oblivion. It is I..."

Legolas nods. Again they fall into the tree—

_and mix— and  
_ _Separate, again—_

and Gimli offers the stone to the sprite before him. Legolas takes it. They nod.

"I will bring you back to me," they promise. "We are—we—"

Gimli feels it too. The bond they share—even Celebrimbor and Narvi, ancient lovers doomed to die, had no such connection. This is something entirely new.

Something both light and fire and...love.

Legolas holds the stone and closes their eyes. Gimli can hear voices, indistinct: Legolas, Fí, Kí. Communing, stopping the spell, protecting the forest.

The stone glows. Gimli touches it—touches Legolas—embraces them, weeping, loving them fiercely—

_his form flickers, burns, and_  
_is  
_ _gone._

* * *

(They say the forest is haunted.)

There is too much to answer for. Legolas stays in their tree for days, recovering, but also hoping against hope they will feel Gimli's spirit again. Those endless moments had been—different—something indescribable and unbelievable and wonderful. Now, his absence was a hollow in a dying trunk.

When at last they emerged, Tauriel waits for them. She embraces them and sobs, telling them all that happened.

Her tree had burned, but she survived. Thranduil had mustered an army of mages, fighting the storm—she convinced him to hold off attacking the firefolk settlement.

Then the storm ceased. A glow arose from Legolas's tree, and all the ghosts sighed and vanished. The treefolk recovered, waiting for Legolas to explain.

Legolas doesn't know how. They stumble through the story, too fantastical to believe. They sense the others' doubt—only Tauriel believes and pities them.

Thranduil does not understand, but he permits peace to be discussed. Legolas leads the discussions with Chief Thorin and his mage nieces. Tauriel and Kí sneak off together from time to time. No one pays them any mind.

Peace is negotiated. A celebration is thrown—but Legolas still feels...empty. Gimli is not there.

They speak to Kí and Fí, begging to know something—anything—about that man they...loved?

They learn tales: heroism, bravery, humor. Legolas listens intently, cries at times, especially when Kí tells them of how Gimli begged to end the storm.

"You can call up ghosts...?" they ask hesitantly. "Could you...?"

A shadow falls across Kí's face. "No," she says. "The wood has enough spirits already. And who knows what could slip through with him? Firefolk magic, as you sprites say, is not as...precise as yours."

But Legolas has firefolk magic now, with still the precision of sprite magic. An idea begins to form.

A year passes. Peace is—there. It is threatened at times, but maintains. And Legolas prepares.

They enter their tree one night and concentrate. They call upon the fire within, mingled with life and light.

_Have mercy,_  they beg to the willow that united them.

When they exist, they are a ghost.

They stare intently at the willow—waiting—wishing—

Nothing comes.

Legolas closes their eyes bitterly. Of course. Gimli was gone. Whatever bond they'd forged had scarred Legolas and destroyed Gimli. They would never—

A cough. The smell of sap; the creak of green wood.

Legolas's eyes fly open.

"You never gave up on me, did you?" Gimli asks.

Legolas cries—laughs—sobs—and throws themself into Gimli's arms.

* * *

It is true that the forest is haunted. Spirits dwell there, ancient and powerful, and they are unkind to strangers. A sprite will strangle you with roots or poison you with brightspear or blind you with a fearsome light.

But only one ghost remains in the wood. And that ghost, though its name may change, has no more malice.

The sprite and man that mingled together are eternal, and they are full of love and mercy, as only those bound to such a willow can be.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays!


End file.
